


Heart and Hearth

by Niphredilien



Series: The Paths We Tread [16]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta'd, Cuiviénen, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, pottery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 09:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niphredilien/pseuds/Niphredilien
Summary: “What’s your name?” The nēr asks, sitting opposite and crossing his legs. “I’m Elwē Elnenion.”Finwē rolls his eyes but replies all the same as he takes out his crafting wire. “Finwē Finnīsion.”The life of Finwë Finnision, before and after his death.
Relationships: Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Finwë, Elu Thingol | Elwë Singollo/Finwë/Ingwë Ingweron, Finwë/Indis/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Finwë/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Indis/Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë
Series: The Paths We Tread [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125998
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	Heart and Hearth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!
> 
> So, a new story - this one will be long and I cannot promise regular updates but I shall try.
> 
> I have tried to tag for things that will come in this story but my plan changes quite regularly so the tags are very likely going change as well. That said, I doubt much worse than what I have tagged right now will happen.
> 
> This story is going to alternate between a chronological story from Cuiviénen to Finwë's death and what happens after his re-embodiment so there is some very dubious use of Primitive Elvish. I have thrown so many macrons around because no-one can actually stop me and apparently I like making life painful for myself? (There is no shortcut for macrons on word, it's all copy and paste shortcuts) But yes, if anyone has any nice insights into how Primitive Elvish works, I would be eternally grateful.
> 
> Thank you to [oliviacat3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliviacat3/pseuds/oliviacat3) for beta’ing.
> 
> No trigger warnings for this chapter.
> 
> And I hope that you enjoy!

Finwē sits on his rock when he makes his pottery.

It is large and flat, placed nicely on the edges of the water. There is a large outcropping above that keeps the worst of the weather away and it tends to be kept clean by the tides that dictate his working times.

It is Finwē’s escape, hidden from the rest of the world.

For this reason, he does not expect someone to be there when he arrives at the waning tide.

The nēr is silver-haired and stands in the water, his skirt hitched over his knees and the pale skin of his bare shoulders almost glowing in the starlight. He does not initially notice Finwē.

Finwē stands a little awkwardly with the lump of clay he had been intending to make into a series of cups today in his hands and a bag of tools on his hip. He has just decided that it is not worth it to disturb the other elf when the elf in question sighs and spins around, stepping out of the lake and onto the stone.

His eyes widen slightly as they meet Finwē’s and Finwē freezes, unsure as to whether he should flee or stand his ground.

The decision is made for him as the elf smiles. “Greetings,” He says as he bows his head, his partially braided hair falling over his shoulders. “I did not think anyone would find me here.”

“I did not _want_ to find you,” He says, sounding a little more irritable than was probably polite: he can hear his grandmother chiding him. “I was hoping to be alone. This is where I work.”

The other nēr looks surprised. “Really? I come here often when the tide is in but I have never seen you before.”

Finwē doesn’t answer, instead dropping his clay on the floor and kneeling down. He hopes that the nēr will take this as a sign to leave but Finwē has no such luck.

“What’s your name?” The nēr asks, sitting opposite and crossing his legs. “I’m Elwē Elnenion.”

Finwē rolls his eyes but replies all the same as he takes out his crafting wire. “Finwē Finnīsion.”

There is silence for a moment and then: “What are you making?”

“Some cups.”

“For who?”

“Whoever wants them.” Finwē begins to mould the clay under his hands and he can feel Elwē’s eyes on him.

“Can I have them?”

Finwē looks at him in surprise. “I’ve barely started. How can you know if they are any good?”

“I would not mind,” He says mildly. “But I am sure they would be very well made. And I would like to be your friend.”

“I cannot just give them to you.” Finwē purposefully ignores the offer of friendship. “What would you give me in return.”

Elwē apparently needs to think on this for a moment so Finwē lets him as he begins to form the first cup and decorate it with the wooden tools his grandmother had gifted him on his coming of age.

“My brother and sister and I hunt. I would trade you a wolfs pelt.”

“I would have to see it first but that sounds reasonable.”

For a long while, the only sound is the scraping of Finwē’s tool against the clay until Elwē stands. “I must go and meet my parents. I shall meet you here in two tides time?”

“Four.” Finwē does not look up. “I must fire them so that they keep their form. That will take at least a tide and I like an extra day so that nothing is rushed.”

“Four tides then. Goodbye Finwē Finnīsion.”

And he is gone.

* * *

“These are beautiful,” Elwē says, admiring the set of twelve cups, each cup corresponding with one of the twelve main constellations. “You have a great skill.” He looks momentarily worried. “I fear the pelt is not enough in payment.”

“It is fine,” Finwē assures him readily: the pelt is by far nicer than anything Finwē has ever had. “Ñemer will love it.”

“Oh, who’s your grandmother? Maybe I will know her.”

Finwē bites his lip. He does not desperately want to get into a conversation but it appears to be inevitable. “Finnā Tatiē.” He tries to think of a way he can politely excuse himself to get back home as Elwē’s eyes light up.

“Oh! Yes, she’s my mother’s friend. They Awoke together. That’s what Atū said anyway – Amma never talks about their Awakening. It’s weird we’ve never met then – the bond of Awakening is usually really strong, I’d have thought they would still be in contact.”

“I…I didn’t know,” Finwē admits, feeling rather stupid. This was what came from living so far from the main settlements – he never understood anything properly. “Ñemer doesn’t…really tell me many stories. But that’s…cool, I guess.”

Elwē nods excitedly. “It’s _better_ than cool – it’s amazing! You _must_ come and eat Tāpol with us. I’m sure than Amma would like to see her friend again!”

He looks so earnest that Finwē finds himself nodding. “I shall ask her. She might not be able to come but I would like to.”

“Good.” Elwē puts the pot he had been inspecting carefully back in his bag. “Meet me here before the next high tide and I’ll take you to our house.”

He presses a kiss to Finwē’s forehead that leaves Finwē’s cheeks slightly flushed and then he turns and goes, leaving Finwē behind with the wolf pelt held tightly in his arms and his thoughts in disarray.

* * *

The trek back to the small hut he and his grandmother share is not long but it always feels it for he has to make his way through the deep forest and up a fairly steep cliff before he finds their abode, nestled in the trees and looking out at the lake from its height.

With the pelt held tightly in his arms, he pushes the fabric over the entrance away and steps inside.

His grandmother sits in her place at the far edge, her spindle in her hand as she intently spins out the wool. There is a pile beside her that Finwē will bring into town tomorrow – a third of which he will have to trade, a third of which he will give to Morokē in return for more unspun wool and the other third he will give to Mahtanō in exchange for being able to use his furnace the other day to fire his pottery.

Hopefully, someone will be willing to trade food for Finwē is truly terrible at hunting.

“Hello Ñemer,” He says as he comes in. “I have a pelt from my pottery.”

She does not look up from her spinning as she hums something that might have been acknowledgement but probably wasn’t.

“The nēr who bought the cups invited me and you to Tāpol at the next high tide. He said you knew his mother.”

Another hum.

“Would you like to come?” It is a shot in the dark – he can’t remember the last time his grandmother left their hut.

“No,” She says after a moment of deliberation and Finwē supposes that that is the best he’s going to get.

“OK, well, I’ll just put this here.” He lies the pelt on her bed. “And I’ll start making something to eat.”

* * *

Once every three or four tide cycles, Finwē ventures into the nearest village and sells his grandmother’s wool. While he would much prefer to do his pottery or collect clay from the edge of the lake, his grandmother becomes scarily aimless when she has nothing to do with her hands and he fears terribly what she may do without wool to spin.

So he goes.

The journey is slightly longer than that on the way to his rock and somewhat more difficult as he has to go a similar way through the forest and down the cliffside but with the added difficulty of the beach after that – with sand that shifts beneath his feet – and a basket of his wares balanced on his head.

The actual selling tends to be slightly more enjoyable: he has found that haggling over prices is quite an enjoyable pastime even if it leaves him exhausted by the time he has sold every ball of wool and piece of ceramic he has.

He does not have much wool left when the nīs appears. She wears a short chiffon that might have once been white but is now covered in splashes of colour so dense that he cannot tell and her silver hair is pulled into two messy braids.

“So it is you that Ama gets the wool from. I’ve been wondering for a while but I was never here when you dropped it off.” She puts out a hand and Finwē takes it gingerly. “Mīriel Therī Morokiel. A pleasure to make your acquaintance…?” She trails off expectantly.

“Finwē Fīnnision,” Finwē says.

She smiles, looking rather pleased. “Do you spin?”

“Oh, no. My grandmother is the one who spins the wool. I’m a potter.”

She looks momentarily disappointed but then brightens. “What do you dye your clay with?”

Finwē looks at her in amazement. “You can dye clay?”

“Well, it’s not quite _dyeing_ but I can’t think of a better word for it. I’ve seen a bit from another village further up the coast and apparently, once they’ve created the pottery, they use a brush and put the dye onto it. It’s made in such a way that it stays when the pottery’s put in the fire. Isn’t that cool?”

Finwē nods, for some reason feeling a bit put out that he hadn’t been able to paint Elwē’s cups. “I should like to find out how they do it or even have a go at it myself.” He says it rather wistfully, knowing it to be impossible.

“You could come with me! I’ve been planning to go and I would like a companion – I would bring Ingis but she is not really one for the arts. She is much more at home in the orchard – it’s a good thing that I can bring some of my sewing around with me or I would never spend any time with her. But that is beside the point. Would you like to come?” She looks at him hopefully, a flyaway piece of hair falling into her face.

“I don’t think I really have time to go up the coast.” Finwē smiles apologetically, truly feeling bad that he can’t go. “It’s just me and Ñemer – I can’t really leave her alone for such a long time.”

“Oh.” She looks crestfallen. “Well, I suppose you can’t help that. But if _I_ can go, I may be able to bring something back.”

“Thank you.” And then: “But don’t go alone. It’s dangerous.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. But the hunter hasn’t attacked anywhere near here for ages.”

“All the more reason to be wary.”

“Maybe.” She lets out a soft breath. “Well, I must be going. I am sure my fabric will be dyed now – I must hang them up or they shall shrink.”

She nods to him in farewell and then makes her way through the scattered huts towards the one where Finwē gives Morokē the wool.

He finally sells the last few balls of wool (albeit, probably at a far too low price as his mind was on Mīriel’s words) and makes his way back home, the far lighter basket filled with unspun wool on his head.

* * *

He arrives at the stone before Elwē and spends the time waiting split between making sure his outfit – a simple dress with a collar that ties at the back of his neck and a belt that bunches the fabric at his waist – and hair – half down with a loose braid encircling his head – is completely fine and worrying that Elwē is not, in fact, coming.

He needn’t have worried about either for Elwē appears just when he said he would and looks a bit unsure of himself when he sees him.

“You look…beautiful.” Elwē steps forward, his eyes slightly wide.

Finwē feels himself blush and he is sure that Elwē can see it all the way from the tips of his ears to his collarbones. “Thank you,” He mumbles. “I…don’t wear this often. It’s not great for pottery work.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re wearing it now.” Finwē is very aware of just how close they are. A stray thought that he could just lean up a bit and press a kiss to his lips strays unbidden across his mind and he takes a hurried step back, clearing his throat.

“I…well, thank you.”

“Of course.” Elwē looks embarrassed for only a moment longer before he smiles again and offers his arm to Finwē. “Come, it’s a bit of a walk down the beach.”

* * *

They chat rather amiably as they walk along the beach – Elwē telling Finwē many anecdotes of his hunting trips with his family and Finwē telling the occasional story of the one or two incidents he has been a part of.

“…Elmō never let him live it down, of course.”

Finwē laughs softly. “I wish I had siblings,” He says before he can stop himself.

“It’s really not all that great,” Elwē assures him. Finwē smiles and nods but he wishes he could find a way to explain how lonely he is.

At that moment, the curtain over the entrance to the hut they are walking towards flies open and a furious looking nēr storms out, scowling darkly. “I’m eating with Nowē and Airwē tonight,” He declares, brushing past Elwē and stomping off.

“See what I mean?”

“No.”

They give each other rather confused look before Elwē comes to a realisation. “That was Olwē. The brother I was talking about.”

“Oh.” Finwē looks the way the nēr went with some concern. “He will be back?”

“Of course – not tonight but probably tomorrow. Anyway, we’re getting used to it – he’ll be declaring his marriage to either Nowē or Airwē anytime now and move out completely.”

Finwē blinks. “Oh.”

Elwē slips his hand into Finwē’s. “Come. Our meal awaits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-Canon Names:  
> Finwē - Hair Person (Primitive Elvish)  
> Elwē - Star Person (Primitive Elvish)  
> Elnenion - Son of Elnen  
> Finnīsion - Son of Finnīs  
> Morokē - She-Bear (Primitive Elvish)  
> Mahtanō - Handling Smith (Primitive Elvish)  
> Mīriel - Jewel Daughter (Primitive Elvish)  
> Therī - Broideress (Primitive Elvish)  
> Morokiel - Daughter of Morokē  
> Olwē - Growing Person (Primitive Elvish)  
> Nowē - Knowing Person (Primitive Elvish)  
> Airwē - Sea Person (Primitive Elvish)
> 
> Primitive Elvish Translations:  
> Nēr - Male Elf  
> Ñemer - Grandmother  
> Atū - Father  
> Amma - Mother  
> Tāpol - High Meal (One of the two meals of elves in Cuiviénen, typically held with your family, named due to being held around high tide)


End file.
